Hatin' on Sherlock
by Suncesco
Summary: He hated that man, if he could be called a man at all. Hated him with every fiber of his being.   Anderson has never like Sherlock but nobody ever thinks to look further than that. T for caution. Name will change when I think of something. :/


This started as being a short little look into Anderson's feelings about Sherlock, but it evolved a little. I think I'm going to write several more chapters, each going a little further into Anderson's life. Unless, of course, no one likes it. In which case I may abandon it half finished.

I'm having a bit of writer's block at the moment, so any ideas are greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance!

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He hated that man, if he could be called a man at all. Hated him with every fiber of his being. His stupidly untidy hair, his towering frame, his abnormally shaped nose. Everything about Sherlock set Anderson's teeth on edge. From his snide little comments to his greater-than-thou attitude, there was nothing, absolutely NOTHING, that didn't fill him with the utmost and untamed loathing.

The first time they met was on a crime scene. He had just started at Scotland Yard and this was his first major investigation. It was simple enough, a women beaten to death and hidden in her own closet in a sketchy neighborhood. It looked like a run of the mill domestic violence episode that had gone too far. Most likely the boyfriend had realized his mistake, clumsily stashed the body, and made a run for it. They were going to take a look at the carnage then interview some of the friends, family, and neighbors. But that would have been too easy. No, DI Lestrade felt that something wasn't quite right. Maybe we should call Sherlock in, he had suggested to nobody in particular. Anderson looked around him, but no one else seemed to have noticed Lestrade's mumbling. He decided to pay it no mind and continue doing his job. He should have just run and never turned back.

Less than ten minutes later, a long, thin shadow fell over the woman's legs, which Anderson just happened to be squatting next to. He turned to scowl at whoever was blocking his light, but his face was met by another equally displeased visage.

"Move." the tall man with the pale eyes and angular face ordered him.

"Excuse me?" Who was he?

"You heard me. Get yourself out of my way or I'll do it for you."

Anderson just stared back in disbelief. Who the hell did he think he was? Fortunately, he could see Lestrade approaching a few meters away. He'd set things straight and kick this strange and obtrusive man out.

"Ah, Anderson, I see you and Sherlock have met."

"You know him?" Anderson asked in disbelief as he stood.

"Yeah, I know him. You'll get to know him, too, if you stick around. He helps with difficult cases." Lestrade replied.

Sherlock was peering around Anderson to get a better look at the corpse. "If you don't mind," he started, shoving Anderson roughly to the side then kneeling next to the body.

"You invited him here? Is he even with the police?" Anderson could hardly imagine what sort of medications the person who hired him must have been on.

"He's a consulting detective. He generally works on his own, but he also does a good amount of work with us, so get used to him. He does tend to be a little, unorthodox, though. Just bear with him. He's done a lot of good for London over the years."

"Is he smelling her hair? Are you sure he's not just a necrophiliac mental patient?" Sherlock had indeed taken a whiff of the dead woman's messy bun, and though he was only an arm's length away, looked as though he wasn't hearing a word of their conversation.

"I told you, he's unorthodox. That not nearly the strangest thing he's done on a case. You'll get used to him with time."

Anderson had seriously doubted that. And it was still somewhat true. He was used to Sherlock's ever present shadow looming around every corner whilst he was at work, but he would never be fully accustomed to his... methods.

Changing the subject, Anderson had asked if any light had been thrown on the situation by the neighbors. Lestrade had only just opened his mouth to reply when Sherlock strode over to them.

"Done." he announced, irritation and contempt written all over his bony face. "Really, Lestrade, sometimes I think you call me in just to bother me. Even he," he gestured to Anderson, "could have solved that in an hour, and he looks rather thick."

That did it. If it weren't for his boss standing next to him, he would have punched Sherlock in that absurd little nose of his. As it was, it took every ounce of self control in his body to keep from lashing out. He stood quivering a little with rage instead, trying not to twist his features into a snarl.

"Well?" Lestrade inquired. "What's the verdict?" Was he really going to ignore that?

"It was the brother. You'll probably find him passed out in the park down the street drenched in beer, blood, and his own excrement. If he's not there, I'd consult whoever was bar tending last night at the pub a few blocks over. He's likely a regular and they can point you in his direction."

Anderson glared at Sherlock for a moment, then slid his gaze to Lestrade. There was no way it was the brother. Did she even have one? It was obviously the boyfriend; the one she had was a notoriously heavy drinker with jealousy issues and a well used membership to the local gym. Besides, what brother would kill his own sister, alcohol or no?

"Thanks. I'll let the others know. C'mon Anderson," replied Lestrade level headedly with a nod towards the gangly creature before them. Without any further questioning, he strode purposefully to the door.

Anderson looked back to Sherlock, utter contempt and disgust displayed clearly across his face. Then he had followed Lestrade out of the room. One run in with an irritating know it all wasn't worth blowing his career over.

Sherlock was later proven right, of course. He was always right. It seemed to Anderson that he pulled his answers out of thin air, but in the end, they were always correct. Occasionally he graced their meager minds with the privilege of learning how exactly he did his work. Lestrade usually listened intently to these little speeches while Anderson had to consciously try to keep his attention on whatever Sherlock was saying.

Lestrade, it seemed, had a bit of an obsession with Sherlock. He was involved in far too many of their cases for Anderson's liking. They weren't even always difficult ones. The slightest roadblock, though, and Lestrade whipped his phone out to summon the beast. One time, Anderson had 'borrowed' Lestrade's phone for a moment and to his disgust found that Sherlock was on speed-dial. He had the number one spot on it as well. Next being, who else? Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's monstrous brother. Followed by the usual siblings, parents, and pizza delivery place. Still, the first two entries were enough to make him nauseous. After he'd stealthily returned the phone, Lestrade commented on his pallor and asked if he needed to take the day off. Anderson almost went home simply to avoid further contact with Sherlock that day, but decided to tough it out instead. Besides, he planned on saving his sick days for when his wife went on business trips.

Anderson's wife was a tall Swedish woman called Astrid. She had dark chestnut hair that flowed in little waves down to just below her shoulders and deep chocolate eyes that so often put him in a trance when they were newlyweds. He still thought she was beautiful and he supposed he still loved her, but he also felt like something was missing. It was like the spark, that flame that formerly drove his passion for her, was gone. She was also away quite often. She was a business consultant and so traveled often. This wasn't a huge dilemma, however. Before he met Astrid, Anderson had never really considered himself the marrying type. He would much rather glide through life with a different woman whenever he pleased, with a steady income and a job that wouldn't completely takeover his personal life. When she was out of town, he often had brief but numerous encounters with various women he met in bars late at night. There was one exception to his habit, however.

When she had first started with Scotland Yard, Anderson thought little of Sally Donovan. He acknowledged that she was pretty, but left it at that. Then came Sherlock. After their first meeting, Donovan seemed as thoroughly appalled with him as Anderson was. They were the only two on the force to openly express such feelings towards the consulting detective, and so naturally gravitated towards each other to complain and gossip. Casual conversation led to casual flirting, which in turn led to casual physical relations.

She knew about Astrid. His ring was an obvious give away, as well as the occasional story he'd let slip when they were still just work friends. She seemed fine with it, but sometimes he worried. Every once in a while he caught her looking at him like Astrid used to before he lost interest or she would ask him to do things with her besides having sex. She insisted that they weren't dates, reminding him that they were only friends (with benefits, of course. The best kind, in Anderson's opinion). He usually turned her down, giving her some imaginary excuse about Astrid or prior commitments, but occasionally he'd go. They'd gone to the movies once and been out for dinner several times. It was never anything fancy, but he did feel strange about leading her on. He did not plan on ever voluntarily leaving Astrid; she was a second source if income and gave him the thrill of secrecy and adventure he craved when he went off gallivanting with various temporary lovers. He wasn't *really* interested in Donovan, either. It was for the sex more than anything. She was good for conversation at times as well, which was more than could be said for most people he associated with regularly. But he had to consciously remind himself to call her Sally when speaking as he used her last name in his thoughts. That had to mean something.


End file.
